A Balancing Act
by rainingWolf
Summary: A character study of Steve Rogers and Clint Barton, of Brooklyn bars, of dust-mites, and of Pizza Dog./ Post Winter Soldier. Implied Stucky. Vague Clintasha. Matt Fraction's Clint Barton.


A character study of Steve Rogers and Clint Barton, of Brooklyn bars, of dust-mites, and of Pizza Dog. Post Winter Soldier. Implied Stucky. Matt Fraction's Clint Barton.

* * *

Steve steps into the unassuming bar and takes a look around. It has a familiar feel to it and it takes a moment before he realizes it's the old-school decor that's reminding him of places Bucky used to sneak him off to.

With a deep sigh, he goes to sit on a barstool and orders a Long Island Iced Tea. He can't actually get drunk off anything so what's the point in drinking something that tastes awful.

Across the room, Clint squints. He rubs his eyes. Squints some more because it's only eleven in the morning and there's no way Captain America just walked into a bar and ordered a drink. It's _11\. In the morning._ He's sure Steve is violating at least three different rules right now cause isn't he supposed to be some kind of role model for kids?

He clenches the beer in his hand a little harder and is in the middle of choosing two different paths of either going over or staying where he is, when he looks up and sees Steve looking right at him.

Oh futz.

To be fair, Steve was just contemplating whether to stay when he sees Barton and has to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes. He makes a beeline for Barton. "Does Fury have you tailing me?" It's direct but casual. Steve internally wonders whether he'll ever get used to the Director's utter disregard for others' privacy.

Oh boy. What should Clint even say as he ignores the pain in his knee from when he went out the window two nights ago by the hands of the tracksuit guys? He hasn't even talked to Fury in ages, not since the day he almost popped the Director's throbbing vein because of Kate. Technically, Kate's her own person and it's not like he's her dad or anything, but apparently that means nothing to Fury who needs to know every single detail about his life down to the brand of coffee that Clint guzzles straight from the coffee pot every morning.

"Uh," he says as a response to Cap's question, and he can practically _feel_ eloquence leaving his physical body. He pauses and looks out the window at Pizza Dog tied outside; he's in the shade, happily wagging his tail. The dog is managing to garner more food and attention from strangers than Clint has in his entire life. "I live near here."

Steve watches him, trying to decide whether to believe him. Maybe he needs to…turn his alertness down a little. He nods and gestures questioningly to the seat across from Barton's.

Clint blinks _again,_ and he's pretty sure Cap is gonna start insisting he get some eye drops soon due to the amount of blinking he just did. He nods in turn for Steve to sit, the hand not nursing the beer coming to rest on his knee. He absently rubs it and is suddenly conscious of the ragged shirt he's wearing with the coffee stains from yesterday morning.

Of _course_ Steve would be wearing an impeccable muscle-showing shirt at a bar.

Steve sits, grateful for the company now that he has it. "Sorry if I sound paranoid. It's just that I have reason to." He offers a friendly smile. "So, you drinking to forget or remember?"

Now isn't that just the question that Kate would be asking him if she was here. But she's not, because of Clint being an absolute futzball and suddenly, his beer is unappealing and he pushes it to the side.

So he deflects the question because that's what he does best. "Wait. Are you drinking a _Long Island Iced Tea?"_

"Yeah, so?" Steve's voice comes out unexpectedly defensive.

Clint grins because this is one step away from the dangerous territory that Cap was about to pry into and he's glad that Steve took the bait. "I don't know, man. I just thought you'd be a vodka kinda guy."

Outside, a young girl walks up to Pizza Dog to pet him and the dog all but rolls over, exposing his belly, feet happily kicking away.

Steve smiles sardonically. "You know, I can't actually get drunk." He eyes Barton's abandoned beer. "What's your excuse?"

The pain in his knee seems to heighten as Clint feels Cap's stare move slowly from his beer down to the knee. He takes his hand off immediately, putting it back on the table to grab some peanuts, but Steve is looking at him _too_ intently and _clearly_ isn't getting the hint that he doesn't want to talk about it. Ever. With anyone.

"I'm tired of drinking at home," he responds and one second passes before he realizes what he said. Great. Now Cap is going to think he's a closet alcoholic.

Barton's shifty eyes all but scream that he doesn't want to talk about it. Steve casts about for a change of topic. He doesn't want to talk about himself either. His gaze drifts toward the window where Barton's dog sits happily, waiting for its owner to return. "How's the dog?" he asks stupidly.

"How's Nat," Clint asks at the same time and he actually sorta cringes this time because wow. Foot in mouth syndrome. _How's Nat._ Must as well have asked how the weather is because everyone and their ancestors know who Nat is now after that whole fiasco.

Steve chuckles, remembering Nat's surprisingly soft lips against his. Anything for the mission. "Same as ever. She's a good friend," he adds, feeling sentimental all of a sudden.

Friend. The way Cap said it grinds on Clint's nerves a little, and he's unsure why he's feeling this way.

He replies belatedly and stupidly, "Uh. The dog's fine too."

Outside, Pizza Dog lays on his side, tongue rolling out in ecstasy as now, a group of children surrounded him, rubbing their tiny hands into his fur.

"And a good friend too, I imagine," Steve says distantly, mind on Bucky again. Dammit. If he could just feel that pleasant buzz of alcohol in his mind. But then again, he used to drink with Buck, and even that would remind him of his friend.

"Uh.. I guess so." Clint doesn't know what it is but he seems to always lose his words when he's around the walking star-spangled banner. Their conversation lapses back to silence, and he vaguely wonders if he should swig another sip of that beer. Unappealing though it is, the beer is looking like a better option than sitting in awkward silence with America's big hero three times over. In a bar. At eleven in the morning.

Now that he's with Barton, Steve finds he can't bear the silence. "So what've you gotten up to since New York?"

Memories of Tracksuit Bros slugging him in the face, Kate leaving with her bags packed determined not to come back, and Nat walking out his apartment and never seeing her again beyond the cryptic messages she sends flash through his mind, but he chooses the easier option to discuss. The safer one.

"Just been cleaning house."

"That's awfully vague, Barton. Though I gotta say, you've never been more relatable than right now." At least to Steve.

Clint grunts in response, understanding the underlying meaning of Cap's words. He might not be a genius, but he doesn't have to be one to know how Cap's feeling. After all, Cap's not the only one to lose someone.

He gropes for his sweating beer and manages a sip before he's reminded of why he pushed it away in the first place. "So, how'd you wind up in this part of the city, Cap?"

"Brooklyn doesn't feel like Brooklyn anymore." Steve has said it so many times to so many people, but the only ones who really know what he means are ninety years old. "Just trying to find a place that does," he sighs.

"So instead, you don't even leave Brooklyn and come to Bed-Stuy to drink." Clint shifts, and he honestly meant to be funny, but he can see that Cap doesn't take it that way as his mouth twists in a funny little way that indicates anything but. Again. Foot in mouth syndrome. When will he ever find the right things to say?

"Maybe I should've been asking you for the right destinations." Steve wonders if he's being paranoid again or if Clint actually doesn't want to talk to him. When people want to chat up Captain America, Steve smiles automatically and tries to get out of the situation as quickly and politely as possible. But when someone doesn't want to talk, he finds it hard not to take it personally. Does no one want to talk to just Steve? His brain unhelpfully shows him the smiling face of his best friend. _Not since I lost him._

"Not sure if I can help you, Cap. After all, I'm just your average Joe." The pain in his knee flares up again as if to clarify this very stupid point, and he suddenly wishes he wasn't sitting here in this bar with Captain Freaking America sucking up alcohol by the bottle.

Steve goes for another swig of his drink before realizing it's already finished. Crap. He signals the bartender for another. "That's what I used to be." He regrets the bitterness of his tone as soon as he says it, but it is true.

Clint doesn't even realize he's standing until the beer hits the ground, shattering, enlisting the attention of the few people at the bar who are now staring unashamedly at Captain America and also the attention of Pizza Dog who abruptly perks up, straining at his leash to get inside. A part of Clint is condemning himself for causing a scene but a bigger part, the part that he's been pushing deep deep down because god _damn_ he's also an Avenger too thank you very much, is rapidly unfurling itself at what Cap said.

Because _futz._ Steve Rogers is sitting before him, basically agreed with him about being just an average Joe and he was saying it with such bitterness and anger that Clint is no longer seeing Captain America but Kate, Bobby, Natasha, all the women in his life who had left because he just wasn't good enough.

Steve is on his feet faster than an average Joe could blink. "What? What is it?" His every sense is on high alert and he finds...nothing. What did Barton sense? He looks around. The bar's patrons seem to range from interested to annoyed, but not dangerous, unless you count the daggers the bartender is staring at the shattered glass. Outside, Barton's dog strains against his leash, but even he has an unthreatening air about him. Steve's shoulders start to relax again, but just to be sure, "Barton?"

Cap is saying something but Clint doesn't hear it, just methodically bends down to pick up the shattered glass. Piece by piece, he picks it up, and he would have picked up all the garbage on the floor too if it weren't for the warm hand that clamps down on his shoulder.

"Barton?" Cap repeats and it's a call to settle down, tone resembling that of a superior officer telling a wayward soldier to stand down.

It irks him and he should do what Rogers is saying but he won't because Cap is treating him like they're friends and they're _not._ Just because they managed to fight off an alien invasion and they used to work for SHIELD means nothing after the dust has settled.

In that moment, it hits Steve how _not_ an average Joe Barton is. He's a soldier. An Avenger. A man who's more adept with a bow and arrow than Steve is with his one of a kind vibranium weapon. And this soldier has something on his mind. "You look like you need to get something off your chest," he tries.

Clint snorts and it comes out louder than it should in the semi-silence of the bar.

 _"I_ need to get something off _my_ chest? You're one to talk," he mutters as he brushes past Steve and out the door towards Pizza Dog. The dog whines, tail wagging, and he snuggles right next to Clint who immediately feels ten shades better outside in the fresh air than inside the bar.

"Forgive me if I wasn't sure whether you wanted to listen," Steve scoffs. God knows he needs to stop bottling everything up, but with Sam off doing his own thing, Steve doesn't really have many people he trusts with this. At least not many that didn't die of old age already.

Clint ignores him once again and he's pretty sure if Nat was here, she'd smack him for being rude to America's greatest hero since the bread itself. But he can't help it because Pizza Dog is more important and yeah, so what if he just maybe wants to cuddle up with the dog, get some pizza, and call it a day even before the sun reaches its apex?

Because he is _not_ about to have a heart to heart conversation with Captain America in the middle of the sidewalk in Bed Stuy, New York.

God. Kill him now.

Is Barton, ignoring him? He doesn't know why, but this rubs Steve so far the wrong way. He's Captain America, and all he wants is to forget for a little while. He's already walked out of the bar and can't very well go back without looking like an idiot, especially not after his…acquaintance…broke a glass. But going home means more wallowing. "Or maybe I don't want to talk to you," he blurts. A little reverse psychology never hurts.

"Now you just sound like you're twelve," Clint says to the dog because he sure isn't about to call out how immature Steve was to his face. But something has to give as Pizza Dog gives him that _look;_ the mutt is now free of his leash and he just shakes himself, coating both men with fur. He cocks his head to the side, endearingly, and Clint sighs.

Okay. So maybe he's also a bit immature so sue him.

He looks up to Cap's immortalized face and stands back up, ignoring the pain in his knee once more. "Wanna... Come over and I don't know. Hang out?" Chill sounds too cool for the two of them to do since they're clearly both lost souls right now so. Yeah. Hang out. Much better words.

Steve breathes a sigh worthy of his ninety-five years. He just got called immature and then asked to hang out in the span of thirty seconds. What could go wrong? "Hang out? Do you think you're twelve too?" But before Barton's walls or hackles or whatever they are can go up again, "Okay." He shrugs, because Brooklyn isn't the same and now fellow avengers are his only sense of familiarity. Minus bars that try really hard to nail that retro look, of course.

Okay.

Well. Okay. He's done it now. Hard part is over. Clint whistles, Pizza Dog follows at his heels, and he leads Cap towards his apartment.

It's rundown. It's nappy. But it's home even through it's peeling wallpaper, druggies dealing across the street, and Simone singing with her little Simones one floor below his.

While Barton sets down his keys and fills two glasses with water, Steve looks around the apartment. After the multitude of high tech locations he's come to associate with the avengers, this rundown place feels pleasantly homey. "Now this is more like what I remember." The sputtering of automobiles and whirring of appliances reverberate through his seventy five years of sleep. "Or at least it's less different than the other parts of Brooklyn I've seen."

"Glad to hear that some things haven't changed that much."

Pizza Dog jumps on the poor excuse of a couch and immediately curls up after looking at Steve with longing eyes; Clint feels more than sees Cap soften up at the sight; the archer takes a sit next to the dog, hand drumming along its side in a rhythmic motion. The dog's tail wags in unison with its legs, in bliss, and Clint relaxes too as he double checks and triple checks that all three locks are in place.

Steve's eyes dart to Barton. There's a change in him, a shift in his posture that almost makes him seem like a different person. A person Steve doesn't know but would like to.

With a jolt that shouldn't be such a revelation, Steve realizes Barton is home. The change he's seeing in the assassin's demeanor is one he's been chasing himself ever since waking up. The moment he finds home, he'll…

Steve watches Barton's callused fingers move against the dog's soft fur. _My home isn't a place,_ it occurs to him, his one-track mind slipping back to thoughts of the person who is his home, whether in Brooklyn or Germany or Serbia. "But lots more _has_ changed," he says.

"Of course things change. That's the way it goes." Clint's words come out soft, a whisper, but certain, because Cap's not the only one who yearns for the past. Clint knows enough to regret and he has his own demons to fight, but enough is enough with Steve's sad voice, his sad frowns, and his sad sad eyes that are wise beyond his body portrays. "You of all people should know this," he continues, not looking at Steve but instead, at Pizza Dog. "You either adapt... or die."

It pulls a chuckle out of Steve. It seems like such a dramatic thing to say, and yet it's so Barton. "Seems drastic, don't you think?"

Clint continues to drum his fingers along Pizza Dog's side, because Steve may be laughing but it's a bitter one that resounds and swells in Clint's chest. He knows that laughter and the feeling it gives, one of sinking, of drowning, of eternal falling without a life line. "You know it's true," he responds after a beat of silence that stretches for a long long minute.

Steve does. Oh he does. His thoughts go to a powerful metal arm and the dead eyes of the man he once knew. Once loved. Still loves?

"I wonder if that's just what Bucky did." Steve puts it out there, the words spoken as much to himself as to present company.

Clint could ignore it. That would be the easy option. To pretend he didn't hear Steve say the name of someone supposed to be long gone with such fondness that makes Clint think of Nat and Kate and Bobbi.

It should have been easy.

But it wouldn't be right.

So he stills himself, inhales, exhales, and finds himself making the hard choice.

The right choice.

"I'm sure he did the best he could with his circumstances." Pizza Dog peers up at Clint, wanting more pats, but he focuses on Cap instead. "You did the same. There's nothing wrong with that."

"I- I chose what happened to me. Every part." And okay, maybe he didn't choose to sleep for seventy five years. But the serum, crashing that plane—it was all him. "But he…" Steve trails off. He can feel the ghost of Bucky's warm, mischievous eyes on him, of his heavy, steadying hand on his shoulder. He can still see the way his uniform used to fit him, completely unlike the harsh lines of his winter soldier look. "He didn't choose any of it. But he had to adapt."

"But isn't that better than dying," Clint says more to himself than to Steve.

Steve's breath hitches. Flashbacks of hanging off a door, of clutching Bucky's hand as if clinging to life itself, of mourning him every moment of his life afterwards. The high-low of finding Bucky alive but then realizing he's forgotten him crashes into Steve all over again. "If it wasn't," he muses, "I wouldn't have been doing all this to try and get to him." But Steve found everything _but_ Bucky in his quest: old footage, newspaper articles—some physical, others archived on this incredible internet he's still getting used to—all showing the monster that is the winter soldier. "He's killed so many people," he breathes, finally saying the words out loud.

"But that doesn't mean you stop loving him," Clint says and suddenly, he feels he understands what Nat, Kate, Bobbi, and all the others have been telling him for a long long time. "After all, he's strong. He'll survive, live, and come back to you in time."

"Come back to me..." Steve's voice almost breaks when he repeats the words. "He was right in front of my face and he didn't come back. He looked me dead in the eyes and didn't know me." His bitterness, the despair of months of searching only to find nothing but more devastation, creep into his voice. "And I can't even get to him."

"He'll come back though." Clint's not sure why he feels so certain about this but he does, and the statement is as sure as air, as water, as fire, and it feels right to finally look Steve in the eye. "I know you know it deep down."

Steve's brain unhelpfully starts providing a list of every government actively trying to kill Bucky. "I have to." _I'm with you till the end._ And end after end. He looks at Barton contemplatively."You sound like you know what that's like." It's an open invitation, to talk if he wants, to shrug and continue petting his dog if he wants.

 _You sound like you know what that's like._

This is an invitation and Clint should talk, should open up before the feelings within curdle him from the inside out. But Steve isn't Nat, isn't Kate, isn't even Pizza Dog, but he's here, right now, trying so hard even after what happened with SHIELD and the Winter Soldier.

And shouldn't Clint do the same?

"Yeah I do," he sighs and he knows he doesn't have to say "unfortunately" for Steve to understand him. "It's like drowning in lukewarm water, isn't it?"

That's...exactly what it's like. Steve nods. "Though maybe I would've described it as falling forever. I'm not a fan of oceans after, you know…." After he was supposed to crash and drown but couldn't even do that.

Clint snorts at that and it sounds like a horn in the silence, jerking Pizza Dog awake so that if he had eyebrows, both would've risen at his owner. But Clint doesn't see this; instead, he finds that this laughter comes easier than it should.

He hasn't laughed like this in a long long time.

"Don't tell Nat that. She'd eject you from your seat next time the helicarrier is over the ocean."

"And apparently, I'd be completely safe." Steve chuckles, surprising himself when it's not entirely humorless. "You ever think about...pushing the limits to learn where they lie?"

Clint thinks back to two nights ago and his aching knee now, and shakes his head. "I've learned the hard way that humans, despite everything, still have limits." He doesn't mean to be bitter but he can't rub off the _tone_ that slips out because Steve is SUPERhuman while Clint is just... well Clint.

"I used to know my limits once. I always disregarded them, but at least I knew what they were. And where." Dozens of back alleys where he paid for standing up to bullies flash through his mind. Steve wonders if Barton has limits. Is there a target he can't hit? A distance he can't cover? "You would think all the avenging we've done would help me figure it out. Some good old fashioned learning on the job, you know?"

Avenging. A safe topic unlike the one they were previously converging on. "Definitely," Clint answers and he finds himself rubbing his knee.

Steve is still standing at the counter, looking lost and at home at the same time, and Clint responds by scooting over and offering a seat on the ragged couch. Steve looks surprised but sits down and they both stare at the opposing wall in somewhat awkward but comradely silence.

Clint still hasn't replaced the TV that broke when the Tracksuits stormed through his place months ago.

They sit in silence that should be the most awkward experience of Steve's life, but somehow isn't. The broken TV is a surprising but definite factor in putting him at ease. After a moment, he decides to go for it and blurts the question that's been on his mind all afternoon. "So what's up with your knee?"

The knee in question seems to creak under the pressure that Clint just exerted on it in some sort of way that was meant to render it painless; instead, the pain flares up once again, reminding him of problems and consequences too close to home.

"Had a bad bump when cleaning house the other day. It's no big deal." He shifts nonchalantly in an effort to take some weight off the bad leg and hopes Steve doesn't notice.

He prays.

But nobody hears and nobody answers because Steve's eyes are narrowing rapidly in an unhappy way.

Barton is lying. Steve can tell as clearly as he can smell cigarette smoke on the couch. But it's even more clear that Barton isn't about to open up. "Those...dust mites...are a real pain, aren't they?" The analogy is painfully transparent. And Steve is counting on Barton to see right through it.

Clint looks anywhere but at the guy next to him and speaks to the wall. "You know how they are. You clean them up. You use whatever it takes. And yet, one week later, everything gets covered and ashy anyways."

Steve grasps at the straws Barton has scattered. Maybe Steve's just being dense, but he still has no idea what they're talking about. "Did they, the dust mites, get in from outside or were they...set loose from dusty old corners inside?" He wonders if he's even making sense anymore.

Clint ignores the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose because he's not sure if Steve is just asking because he truly believed what Clint said or if this is some innuendo for something.

It has to be some metaphor and it sounds like a game that they can both play even if the playing ground is uneven for now.

After all, Steve is a soldier. Not a spy.

"Probably from outside. People are always coming and going in this apartment. I always have to keep an eye on outsiders. They always come in to disturb the place."

"Sounds like a problem. You should set booby traps. You know, for the...dust." The metaphor is falling apart right in front of his face, but he doesn't want to let go of the thread. He tries to grip it more tightly. "You know, like those things that blow the bugs away by the doors in fancy buildings?"

Cap is really trying here and it's almost hilarious if it weren't for the fact that Clint keeps things too close to the chest because why should he talk about his problems when there are people suffering worse out there. "I could but more will come anyways. Dust is hard to get rid of as you know. And besides, any cleaning methods I use right now would bother the others living here. Don't wanna disturb anyone ya know."

And now they're getting somewhere. "It's great that you're considerate of others, but you gotta look out for yourself too. Especially if you're not letting anyone else help out." Steve hesitates; he recognizes how carefully he needs to frame this next bit, unless he wants to alienate whatever this fragile understanding is that they've unexpectedly built. "Dust mites may seem like a small problem compared to the shit you've fought, and compared to what others face, like, you know, some people have, termites, I guess..." Best not try too hard to sell the paper-thin metaphor. "Anyway, but that doesn't mean your problems aren't significant or worth talking about. Facing problems isn't a competition."

A small part of him understands, even agrees with what Steve says. But another part, the part that whispers at night and in the darkness about his failures and his mistakes, is harder to shake off. "Sorry Cap. I just can't be like you." Clint knows it's a mistake to say that the moment the words form but it comes out anyways because he's sick of lying and hating himself.

"You too?" Steve can't keep the bitter disappointment out of his voice. He didn't really try to. "You- everyone thinks I'm this perfect role model." He sighs, redirecting his gaze to the dog, because maybe that inquisitive canine gaze will help him from falling down this spiral of feeling sorry for himself, yet again. Maybe he should get a dog. "What I wouldn't give to have a therapy session where the doc didn't want my autograph, didn't judge me for not being happy with everything I have." It's too much. It's more than he's ever admitted out loud, and he's painfully aware of how much of an entitled jerk he sounds like. But he's tired of people assuming he's perfect.

"Well you may not be perfect but you're much better than me, Cap." Clint feints a look down at Pizza Dog while actually peering askance at Steve. Steve looks like he's in pain, bitterness written all over his face, and it's not the first time that Clint thinks that the other wouldn't make it as a spy.

A soldier, yes. But not a spy.

That decades old instinct to smile, drilled into Steve over hundreds of stage performances, forces its way onto his face. The poster boy of American charm. A flash second of resentment clenches at his chest before releasing him. "You know, I'm not so sure." It sounds confrontational, and he's actually not feeling very confrontational at the moment. "Do you and Natasha ever talk about…stuff that's troubling you?" He stops himself before he can ask too bitterly whether it's nice to have someone in your life who really gets it _and_ whom you trust.

Clint chokes out laughter that startles Pizza Dog awake again; the dog sits up on the couch, one ear flopped inside out. "Nat and I aren't as close as you think we are."

Well that explains…not a lot. Steve reaches across Barton to flip the dog's ear back into place. "But you guys seem so in sync. On the field and off it."

"That just comes with working together for so many years. I'm sure with time, we could be like that too." Clint wants to say that with time they would be like him and Bucky, but he knows that's crossing a line.

Unaware of Clint's inner thoughts, Steve's automatic smile isn't forced this time, and neither is the accompanying chuckle. "Us? Like you and Romanoff?" He thinks this over. The time he spent with Natasha, now that he thinks about it, showed him that she's not all that different from himself. Her methods and her priorities may be incomprehensible to him, but at the end of the day, she's a soldier just like him, who values her friends just like him. And if she has such a deep understanding with Barton... "That would be pretty cool."

Cool? _Cool?_ Captain America thinks being friends with someone like him would be _COOL?_

Clint is sure that if he weren't so focused on giving Pizza Dog a belly rub, his eyes would be bugging out and about to drop on the floor.

"Why are your eyes popping like that?"

"Why are- why are _your_ eyes like that," Clint shoots back, and even to his ears, it sounds like the retort of a six year old but he couldn't care less right now, because he's still reeling over the fact that Steve said it'd be _cool_ to be friends with him.

 _Cool._

"What- What's wrong with my eyes?" Steve gapes for a moment, watching Barton's shifty eyes with confusion and wondering what he missed. But then it dawns on him. The concern he felt at Barton's expression melts into amusement. The concept of friends is probably as weird to Barton as it is to him.

"Nothing," Clint says. "Just... Huh..." At a loss at words, he drums on Pizza Dog's belly and is rewarded with a humming from the creature. Yet, the air isn't awkward and he finds himself relaxing once again as the summer haze drifts in from the open window.

A relaxed smile works its way onto Steve's face. He leans his head back into the couch. He could get used to this.

* * *

\- Written with **sleapyGazelle** ~

\- Enjoy!

\- Reviews are very appreciated.


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